What The Thunder Said
by odalique
Summary: "The breath-taking arrogance of Akatosh's children, to think themselves too pure for the base earth; to raise themselves as paragons of the mortal world. But mortal you still are, no matter how precisely orchestrated your delusions. It is your greatest remaining flaw, Dragonborn, the one that lends the lie to your pretence; the blood and entrails splattered across fine white silk."
1. Dead in the Water

-emerges from coursework/food-laden hiatus-

* * *

**1. Dead in the Water**

* * *

"_A map is more unreal than where you've been or how you feel, and it's impossible to tell how important someone was and what you might have missed out on, and how he might have changed it all._" – Fiest, Intuition.

* * *

Raven Rock's dock is exactly one hundred steps in length, from one end to the other; from roiling sea to wooden boards that stretch into a tangle of alleyways—stone and dust and cutthroats. For the past hour and a half she's been wandering the same path, back and forth in the dark, while the rest of the settlement sleeps. She knows full well she'll need respite before she meets with Neloth tomorrow morning, and yet…

The wind is whistling along the seafront as she traces the sandstone pillars, moving around the merchant vessel resting in the water, past damp wooden crates and cracked clay jars. The Retching Netch lies a few moments to the north, but even if she _were_ to return there, she wouldn't sleep. She can't stop thinking, and it's beginning to hurt.

When Teldryn was still travelling with her, it was easier. His presence froze everything; the world was the same, only at a safe distance, vague and formless behind the rime. But his final words were fire, and now the ice is melting. She wants the frost again, enveloping glass, distorting the windows in the inns and taverns of this island. With the thaw, flashes of recollection have already returned, the old voice of ash with them—the souls, now less of a whisper and more a roar—and there's a dark burning in her gut, a barbed hook reminding her of her obligations. But it makes no difference, because she knows she can manage without him. Perhaps she's just been drinking too much tonight. She hopes that's all it is.

Though now… now she can hear other voices, from somewhere nearby. Leaning over the dock wall Katya sees two figures in the distance, standing midway down the jetty steps, ready to board. The lantern light is dim and guttering in the gale—but she recognizes the Nord captain immediately. Though his words are lost on the breeze she can all too easily imagine they have something to do with his time of departure.

_You know _he's_ on that ship, tomorrow._

Below, the black sea churns and rolls, waves breaking against the wooden ramparts as the weather worsens. Approaching further, she tries to ignore the cold salt spray thrown skyward, the turbulent black and white surf that crashes against the base of the docks, but something hurts in her chest. It must be the cold air—even before her time in Skyrim, she was never much used to the elements. Perhaps she should go indoors.

_Walk away, then. The retreat of a coward._

… no, not a retreat. What could she gain, watching in the dark? What else can she do, except walk away?

The voice's answer is low and rumbling, as if carried on the crash of the tide. It is proposing an alternative, one she is trying her hardest to ignore. The idea is futile and ridiculous—and for all the so-called wonders of her heritage, she has never had the heart for killing.

_Miraak stands in Apocrypha as a god of nothing, trapped among the ruins and books, the fire stretching to the sky. Solstheim, he knows, is shattered—but he feels nothing. Around his temple lay corpses, some twisted and torn, some burnt beyond recognition, some not nearly human—but he feels nothing. His name engulfed by flames for a time, then cooled to ash and forgotten—but he feels nothing. Now the Last kneels before him, staring soundlessly—and still he feels nothing._

"Don't use that against me. That… was different. Miraak is… is…"

… _not so different, in the end…_

… _and it would be so easy, to stop another from leaving…_

"No… not in a straight fight, at least… but a few well-aimed darts…"

_Simple._

The voice is pleased with her. It purrs and growls, a beast crouched low on its haunches. She doesn't know which pocket she takes the darts from, but she soon finds one in her right hand, double barbed and poison-coated. The metal and light wood feels unfamiliar against her skin; it has, after all, been so long since she last did this…

… did what? Wait… _what am I doing? This… this is…_

A sudden flash of lightning strikes the dock, and she sees the figure to her left just before it hurtles into her. The darts scatter as she collides with the wall behind, crushed between the chitin in her ribs and the stone at her back.

_Unsheathe your blades, before you die in the gutter!_

She's scrabbling desperately at the ground now, trying to force the air into her lungs, trying to drag herself to her feet; but cold weight is pressing down on her legs. Something grabs her by the wrist, flipping her onto her back as another streak of blue light fills the sky—and then she's staring up at Teldryn, before the dock plunges into darkness.

She stops struggling.

His raspy voice is low and unsteady—and though she cannot see his face, she can imagine his expression.

"What… are you _doing_?"

"Getting crushed, at the moment," she mutters. The brief adrenaline rush is already fading, and her ribs are beginning to ache.

Teldryn says nothing as he pulls them both upright—but he does not let go of her wrist, and soon he is dragging her bodily along the waterfront, toward the bulwark at the westernmost edge of the docks. She swivels around, trying to catch a glimpse of the figures on the ship, but she sees only shadows. The storm has driven them into the cabin, no doubt. Even the whores and thieves of the district have taken refuge; the weather has grown vicious in the dying days of autumn, and the lanterns are proving all but useless in the rising tempest.

Teldryn shoves her toward the wall, his fists balled tightly at his sides. "You… what were you…?"

She would not answer him even if she knew. The effort would not be worth it. And why is he wandering around in his armour, so late at night?

He steps towards her, trembling slightly. "You would have…"

The captain and his companion are doubtless below decks now. Talking, planning…

_The ship will sail, and he will leave you just like the rest._

Teldryn stops, turning his head away. "You… were going to _kill_ them. I saw you." He runs his hand through his hair. "_Why?_"

The voice becomes mute once more, and she almost misses it. Katya shivers.

"Answer me!" he shouts, but his words are softened in the howling wind.

She wishes she could. _No—no, I don't. _She knows the answer, and if she told Teldryn, the guards would be dragging her body out of the harbour water in the morning.

The Dunmer paces in agitation, starting in one direction then another, spitting his words as if repulsed by their taste. "Murder… cold-blooded murder…"

She can't help but feel he's being a little hypocritical.

Finally he stops, a metre away from her. "And from afar, like a common assassin. There's not an honourable bone in your body, _Dragonborn._" He stares at her, red eyes burning like the dragonfires in a face colder than ice. "You are a coward."

_And a failure._

Unable to look at him, Katya drops her gaze to the ground. Perhaps he is right, perhaps not, but she is too cold and tired to care either way. Yet still, she can't stop the words escaping under her breath. "You're the one running away."

Of all people, she ought to know the benefits of silence—or at least of the well-disguised insult.

He lurches towards her, and before she can move he has her by her fur collar, lifted off her feet, face level with his, back pressed against the wall. She wills her hands to reach for her blades, but her fingers only scrape reflexively across the rough stonework. This doesn't surprise her. The voice is saying nothing, and if a cause, a duty—if cold, hard _revenge_ cannot spur her to bloodshed, some trivial mercenary will have little effect. And she's been here before, somewhere along the line…

_Pinned against a wall, hanging from… ropes? Tendrils? Cold velvet fingers—feelers—tentacles?—to white-hot electricity—velvet, fire, velvet, fire—but you _will_ survive, the prophecies say you will, and _don't you trust them by now?

_No… no. This… this is Teldryn…_

Fingers still twitching, she braces herself for the blow. It is inevitable—he has proven more than capable of violence in the past. She's known the story from the start. She may be a coward, but she is not blind.

But the blow never comes. Instead, he leans forward and spits in her face.

"Don't _ever_ judge me," he snarls. "_You_, of all people."

She neither closes her eyes nor flinches. She won't give him the satisfaction.

After a moment, his hands release her furs, and she drops to the dust. The voice erupts again, howling orders at her as Teldryn storms along the dock wall and into the darkness, towards the ship—but she forces the bile down her throat, and ignores the words. The lanterns have become fainter and fewer as the thunder hums to life in the distance, and spots of rain are beginning to fall across the town. There is no point in returning to the tavern now, then. Between the memories, the voices and the dreams, she would only spend the last few hours of the night in the bar.

Katya lifts herself from the ground, and walks away through the rain. The voice falls silent; the thunder takes its place.


	2. Lead and Gold

**2. Lead and Gold**

* * *

"At first a sharpish pain that returns as a thought, that the needle in your skin will bring you closer to god." - Half Moon Run

* * *

_"One child is no different to another," he says._

_He turns, staff at his side and eyes glowing golden._

_The pain fades, as it has faded before—and the grey rolls away with the hiss of dying magic, and she falls to her knees against the writhing dirt, limbs locked and heavy with pressure, and she stares at the earth spoiled between her hands, until finally her eyes rise to him, and he smiles at her behind his mask. Her expression is less one of abject terror, and more of idle curiosity. And he smiles a little wider, as he watches her, and still she stares, indifferent as ever, both aware of their roles in this age-old vicissitude._

_"The hero is no different to the villain."_

_Her apathy means nothing in the end. She is, quite simply, beautiful. He can see the potential within her, a raw and primal energy flickering along lightning-kissed fingers. He looks at her, and he sees his future; reborn, and eternal._

_"You stole my destiny, sister."_

_Beautiful, and alive with promise._

_"Did you know the price?"_


	3. Dream Eater

**3. Dream Eater**

* * *

"_The difference between a hero and a coward is one step sideways."_ – Gene Hackman

* * *

_It's damp and freezing, the first month of spring, and she finds herself balanced precariously on the south wall parapets of Raven Rock, watching the sun fall into the sea. The evening breeze is not so sharp, not compared to the winter gales that were howling across the island weeks before, but it still bites hard on the skin. Above, the sky is burning, vermillion streaked with gold._

_And then she's walking through the streets, red light casting long shadows across the ash and dust. Back to the inn, searching for his face in the upper windows where the glass reflects the dying sun. Perhaps he returned here, as he always does; waiting for her in the same chair under the same light, the same helmet and the easy smile it hides. Both her hands press against the rough timber door and it gives way, revealing an inn surprisingly full for this time of evening—and looking around, more people seem to be arriving by the moment, hunched over tables, filling the free chairs, hurrying downstairs and propping themselves at the bar. Geldis is polishing glasses behind the counter, back turned._

_But something is wrong. The inn is silent, the only noise the sound of cloth against glass, and the torchlight grows dimmer with each hum of friction. Looking back to the room, every single person is turned away._

_One foot retreats, one hand moves to open the door, panic rising like a tide, and then Geldis turns—but he wears another's face, skin dark, scorched, scarred, and gold eyes burning. The glass is a sword, blazing and green, the plain clothes are robes of heavy velvet and metal armour, and harsh, spiked pauldrons gleam in the fading light._

_Grabbing the door handle, and turning, twisting, pushing—but the door is a stone brick wall, and the handle is the hilt of a dagger. Every figure in the inn turns, and every one bears the frozen twisted face of a mimic, eyeless sockets rolling in their heads… red hair, ebony locks, and an easy smile…_

_Miraak steps closer, eyes glowing with the power of gods and daedra, and the dim light fails entirely._

"_You try so hard to forget them. Did you think they could forget you?"_

* * *

She sits bolt upright, shivering in sweat, and for several seconds she cannot remember where this is… _no, not back there, too silent for that_. But as her eyes adjust she can make out vague shapes in the darkness—a crooked chair, standing next to a cupboard, and a simple dresser with a cracked looking glass hanging on the wall above. And beneath her, the same rudimentary bed offered to all the apprentices at Tel Mithryn. It was less than restful even with the aid of alcohol; sober, she would probably be more comfortable on the floor.

Katya doubts she will sleep again tonight, either way.

The room has no candles, no lanterns, and outside velvet clouds obscure Secunda's pale light. It must be late, she decides; the tower and its coast are silent, with even Neloth having given up enchanting for the night. Raven Rock's tavern would have closed hours ago, too, so for want of anything better, she sits back and starts to tell herself a story, voice sliding familiarly in and out of the darkness.

Tonight it will be the dream eater; appropriate, given the situation. It's a pleasant enough tale; certainly, the children of Dawnstar appreciated it. The sort of myth probably not meant for the young in the beginning, but butchered just so throughout history to be relayed as such, and perhaps, back in Cyrodiil, she once believed it, too—but now she knows dreams are not so easily evaded.

Nevertheless, telling it is still a comfort. Most would call it childish—but story and verse have been her constant companions, even before she could understand their words and meanings. It was a consequence of a childhood spent with only tales and legends, and her own imagination to keep her company. Poems and plays, ballads and folktales… all survive there still, in that rotting little orphanage, where other memories have fractured like glass.

She has tried to put her thoughts in order, to recreate the timelines that have warped and twisted in her head—but all her memories lead back to him, and the expression on his face as she drew closer to Vilverin so long ago. She's tried to remember him smiling, or laughing, or pouting at some perceived slight—has tried to remember them all in some other way—Lydia, Arngeir, Delphine, Teldryn… but all she can ever see is fear and anger and sorrow, and it cuts her deeper than any blade.

She will tell their tales. Perhaps their stories will travel across the land, altering on each teller's lips. It's the way of myths and legends; they are unpredictable beings, often outlasting the lacklustre facts of their creation. The exact reality ceases to matter—a story is no less true because its facts are false, and its inhabitants are no less authentic. The most potent creatures of all are those that dwell in both worlds; those who seem to be real but grow as vague and distorted as dreams… until one wonders whether they ever existed at all. Those who haunt days as much as nights, figures as terrible as they are familiar—or terrible _because_ they are familiar.

In the dark, she still sees Miraak standing across the room. In the still and soundless night, she hears the echo of his question—and eyes shut tight, she waits for the dawn.


	4. Handfuls of Dust

**4. Handfuls of Dust**

* * *

"_Thy destiny is only that of a man, but thy aspirations may be those of a god."_ – Ovid, Ars Amatoria

* * *

He wants what was promised him.

And she promised him so much, taunting him with the unspoiled cunning of her blood; flaunting her latent strength, hinting at gifts she had rejected and which might still fall to him, if only he could lure her in. Her soul, her very essence whispered his dreams like an echo, promised him the key to life, if only he would _understand_.

He wants what should be his.

He is the First, after all. But as the hours, days, weeks rolled by, he came no closer to his goal. She let another go in her place; a stubborn Skaal girl, frustratingly mundane and fixed in her rage. The torture was merely an interesting diversion, and a way to take out his fury on a body other than his own. An expression of revulsion, painted in blood and lacerations. In that sense Frea was remarkably useful, but the relief was only temporary, and did nothing to ease the emptiness.

He wants to _feel._

The young shaman still clings fervently to her soul, through the knives and the spells, and he takes that as proof that it is an entity entirely separate from that of the flesh. The earthly body may be torn and twisted and broken, but the spirit stays untouched. Of all creatures he knows this best. The soul does not live in bile or viscera, flesh and blood bear no relation to what lies beneath. She did not understand him then, and she does not truly understand now. Death is not 'pretty'. It is a solution, a tool... and the most terrifying thing in existence.

He wants to _live_.

The Last should have been here by now. She cannot be dead; all that power simply cannot go to waste.

Can she not _see_?

_She can_, he is convinced; the essence in her was always so much stronger. It would have made her a formidable opponent, had she not already learned to hide behind her painted masquerade, to lock herself away inside; had she not already cast away every ounce of potential.

To achieve one's goals, one may consort with the darkest devils—and neither dragons, nor gods, nor shattered heroes will stop him.

He wants what he can't have—and he shall have it.


	5. Vinculum

**5. Vinculum**

* * *

_"Every man is mortal, prince and commoner alike. They fight, love, laugh, compose poems and wage wars, come from nothing and fall back to dust. Life is inconstant, as slight as a candle's guttering flame -and in the darkness, there is only ever us."_

* * *

The last days of fall, and the air tastes of ash, ochre and sienna burning bitter on the tongue. The sky is dark and overcast; she knows not if the sun has yet to rise or set, and the leaves are rustling in their drying, dying red— the final whisper of a season whose breath is turning to ice.

_Pulled to the Words again, no matter how many times you ignore it; a single visit with the living, countless more in your dreams…_

She mounts the steps, one by one, past the scaled corpse and the ghost who would steal the peace from death. Towards the heart of everything; a static heart, she thinks as she's called, as cold and unchanging as the stones that form its parchment. The clouds begin to part when she nears, and the sun is setting over the western bulwark, red and gold falling into the ocean.

Time takes on a new dimension here, as if it has hastened its pace to match that of beating wings.

The essence draws her in, step by step, feet murmuring in ruby and gold and the distant drum of thunder pounding in her ears. The words speak with an echo that booms beyond the red and grey sky and she offers nothing in return. Her embrace is enough, but the wind still blows a little colder.

"I had imagined this moment—the possibilities—more often than I care to say." Her throat constricts at the rich, familiar accent. Hope dwindles and dies. "Reality has exceeded my fantasy, I see. You've grown stronger." A marred smile carried in the voice, muffled by a layer of gaudy gold. "If only I were able to enjoy it in full."

She braces herself against the stone, eyes closed, jaw set, waiting for the soothing rush of energy to dissipate and the white-hot sting of a blade in her spine.

Katya shivers.

"Revel in it," he says, and he touches her neck, "for it is your last chance to hearken the tongue before it strikes you from Apocrypha."

She doesn't look at him, does not need to look, only lowers her arms and inhales through her nose— the long, deep sniff of a trained hunter— and when she breathes again the air has settled and the Words are lifeless, and she asks, in as flat a voice as she can summon, "Do you believe in the prophecies?"

A chill wind blows along the coast, scattering ashes and snow—and then there is silence.

"No." The thunder hums to life in the distance, and just as suddenly the practiced neutrality turns mocking. "Have no fear; what is written now upon the scrolls will be rewritten anew upon your death."

"You mistake my curiosity for fright."

"Do I?" he asks. She swears he is smiling again. "You will need a better mask than that."

"You could get rid of yours." She pushes herself back from the crumbling stone, turning slowly to face hollow eyes.

"We are on fairer footing than you believe, Katya."

His sincerity almost throws her.

"How—"

"I feel it."

The excitement in the whisper makes her shudder. "Feel what?"

"Your essence. The Words, they draw it out, near the surface."

There are two, three shared heartbeats, one more distinct than the other, and then, slowly, carefully, her hand finds his chest, and she stares at him, her expression almost inscrutable. Not hatred, nor apathy, he decides, and… not fear.

She doesn't want to think about what else it might be.

"Just the Words?"

Wisps of fog flicker in her field of vision as a palm brushes lightly across her cheek. Katya stiffens herself against the instinctive flinch, against the ice and piercing cold, and then his fingers are reaching into her, passing effortlessly through her flesh and bone. He speaks to her and all she can hear is the pounding of… thunder—blood? She can't see a thing… but something—something is…

_Snap._

Panic rises like a tide. She tries to pull away but her limbs are numb.

_Snap._

Her teeth are chattering, temperature dropping by the second, the wall a sheet of ice behind her.

_Snap._

It's eating away at the edges of her sight, clawing at her temples; raw, bleeding, scarlet.

_Snap._

Before the scarlet fades to black, she screams, feels something stir—

—_twist_—

… bend…

_Snap._

* * *

AN: whew, i'd love a bit of feedback on this one. not sure if it's up to standard, but at least i gave the plot a boot in the ass. and i solemnly swear the chapters get longer.


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